Military Discipline
by chasingriver
Summary: Sherlock becomes a Cadet at the Army Officer College at Sandhurst in order to pursue Mycroft, an instructor there.


**A/N:** For the lovely _**vaticancame0s**_ in honour of her birthday. Definitely a woman with my sort of kinks. :)

All military inaccuracies are mine, and no disrespect towards the military is intended.

Thanks to deklava for the feedback and beta.

**Warnings:** Holmescest, dub-con, breath play.

* * *

Mummy had made him join the Army.

"Your brother has made quite a career for himself at Sandhurst; he'll be running the place soon. If you're not going to university, you're going there instead. God knows I don't want to put up with you lounging around here for years."

Suddenly, regular university hadn't sounded so bad after all.

He'd fought her on it, of course, but not too much. It would allow him to once again pursue Mycroft from close quarters.

Pursue. Monitor? Seduce? Torture? Maybe a little of all of them. And that sounded _far _more interesting than school, even if it did mean joining the Army.

Besides, it was the Army; being rude to people was outright encouraged, wasn't it?

Mummy had pulled some strings, of course. He'd be serving directly 'under' his brother so Mycroft could keep an eye on him. _Under Mycroft. God, but that had sounded appealing. _

When he was seventeen, he'd pinned Mycroft against a bookcase after Christmas dinner and kissed him. Mycroft had barely spoken to him since, and it had only made him more appealing. Sherlock loved a good challenge.

* * *

The day Sherlock arrived at Sandhurst, Mycroft had been there to greet him. He looked good; the light tan uniform suited his tall frame, and Sherlock was surprised to see how much older he looked.

"Sherlock. I can't believe you actually agreed to this."

"It was this or university. At least in the Army, they'll let me blow things up."

Mycroft's eyes raced quickly down Sherlock's body, taking in him. "I'm surprised they took you; usually you need a degree to get in here."

Sherlock smiled. "There's nothing _usual_ about me, Mycroft. You'd do well to remember that."

Mycroft just laughed. "You've already made sure I can't forget, haven't you? Well don't worry, I'll be seeing to a few things personally - your regulation haircut for one. Report to my office in two hours."

_Oh._

Sherlock followed Lieutenant Duckworth to the barracks with the rest of the cadets. As they were assigned bunks, his name had gotten a sneer from the Lieutenant. "Ah, Holmes. Already riding your brother's coattails, I see."

"Sir?"

"Says here you're to be sent to him directly for any infraction, no doubt so you can get off without a lashing."

_Ha. I'll take a lashing from Mycroft any day. _"I was unaware of that, sir."

"Oh, I'll bet. Don't think it'll stop me from punishing you as well. It doesn't say anything about that. You'd better be on your best behaviour because I'll be breathing down your unshorn little neck. Why haven't you had your hair cut yet, Holmes?"

There was a very awkward pause. "Because my brother is seeing to it, sir."

Lieutenant Duckworth snorted with laughter. "I'm going to make your life a living hell, Holmes."

* * *

He knocked on the heavy wooden door to Mycroft's office. _No, that would be 'Lieutenant Colonel Holmes'._

"Reporting for my haircut, _sir_." He spat out the title like a bitter pill.

Mycroft smirked at him. "I see you've met Lieutenant Duckworth, then?"

"You utter bastard, Mycroft. You're setting me up to be the whipping boy for every officer in the place. All of the 'special treatment' notes next to my name are going to have them singling me out left and right," Sherlock hissed.

"I don't know why you thought I'd make it easy for you, little brother. Around here, genetics only count if you're a Royal. I merely promised Mummy I'd keep an eye on you." He eyed Sherlock's hair with a smirk. "Well, that, and I thought I'd get a little revenge for that stunt you pulled at Christmas." He opened his desk drawer and pulled out a pair of battery-operated hair clippers with a short guard on them. "Besides, I wanted to be the one to shave off your pretty little curls," he said with an edge of menace to his voice.

"That's it. I've had enough of this," Sherlock fumed as he headed for the door.

"Not so fast, _Cadet._ Not even Mummy can get you out of the Army; you're all mine for at least the next year. Now, come here and bend over so your head's over the bin."

Sherlock just glared at him.

Mycroft grabbed him by his soon-to-be-very-short hair and pulled him forward. "Don't be an idiot, Sherlock. You'll do as I say or I'll make sure Duckworth has you cleaning toilets with your tongue. You'll only be getting punishment from me when it's in _my _interests, not yours."

He pulled Sherlock's head over the bin and turned on the clippers, quickly shearing a neat stripe up the back of Sherlock's head. The dark curls missed the bin as Sherlock jerked back.

"Give them to me. I'll do it myself."

Mycroft just laughed and pulled his head back again for another pass with the clippers.

Sherlock fought to escape his grasp. "You _don't _get to do this, Mycroft."

Without warning, Mycroft pinned him to the desk, holding him there firmly with his arm across Sherlock's neck.

"You'll find I get to do anything I want, Cadet," he growled. He increased the pressure on Sherlock's neck, cutting off his air, and started to shave the rest of his head.

Sherlock gasped for breath and struggled, only going limp when the lack of oxygen made his vision dim.

Mycroft eased up slightly on his neck then. "You're only making things more difficult for yourself."

Sherlock snarled at him. "Bastard."

"Oh, you have _no_ idea," he said with a tight smile. "Now, do I have to choke you again to finish the job, or are you going to cooperate?"

"I'll cooperate, _sir_," Sherlock said through gritted teeth.

Mycroft released his hold on Sherlock's neck and let him up. "Head over the bin."

He dropped his head, docilely, as Mycroft shaved the rest of his head.

"Cheer up, Cadet; you've still got those cheekbones. Now, clean my desk. You got hair all over it."

* * *

Mycroft left him alone for a few weeks, and Sherlock, in between tactics classes and assault course training, began to wonder why. He'd previously assumed that Mycroft's reaction to his kiss at Christmas had just been fraternal horror. Now he wasn't so sure. Mycroft had both planned and enjoyed his little shearing session, or at least the exhibition of power it provided. Even if his own complicated feelings weren't reciprocated, there was… something. Perhaps it was just competition, but that was a start. But since then, there had been nothing. Was he bored? _Regretful? Ha. _Somehow he doubted that.

During his third week of training, things started going downhill.

It was morning inspection. He despised it, but Mycroft had been right about the toilet-cleaning thing - it was best to go along with the irritating aspects of military life while you were still at the bottom of the heap.

"Holmes, your boots are a disgrace."

Sherlock knitted his brows in confusion. He'd shined them to a polished glow the previous evening. He glanced down to look at them.

"Eyes front, cadet!" Duckarse practically spat in his face, he was so close.

_Really, this man has no respect for personal space at all. _(He'd let the nickname slip one night, and the whole barracks had picked up on it. Sherlock was just waiting for someone to use it in front of their Lieutenant by mistake.)

"Two extra miles after the run, Holmes - out to the boundary fence and back."

"But sir…"

"Four. You'll do it twice."

"Yes, sir." _Bloody hell. _As soon as the Lieutenant's head was turned, he glanced at his feet. His boots were spotless. He wrote it off as Duckarse giving him the usual amount of grief.

The normal run was four miles, but today his would be eight. This was practically abuse, and completely unjustified abuse at that. Mercifully, it wasn't a day where they had to wear full packs.

After the run, everybody else went off for supper. If he was lucky, Johnston would save him a plate. He started running out to the boundary fence in the rapidly diminishing daylight, eager to get it over with as quickly as possible. He was wheezing his way through the fourth mile when a jeep pulled up beside him and slowed to his pace.

"Cadet."

"Sir," he responded without thinking, even as his brain registered the deep voice and he whipped his sweating head around to verify that it was Mycroft.

"Earned yourself some punishment, did you?" Mycroft gave him a close-mouthed grin. "It was only a matter of time, really."

Sherlock's eyes went wide with fury. "It wasn't Duckarse, it was you!"

"I wouldn't let that slip around him, if I were you. You're not the first cadet to come up with that little sobriquet."

"That's not the point. You got me sent on this godforsaken run, didn't you?"

"Merely keeping an eye on you, little brother. I can't send for you directly; I wouldn't want to be accused of favouritism." He gave Sherlock an angelic smile. "Would you like a ride back? It's almost dark. I do have some business to discuss with you."

"No. _Sir_." His mouth curled around the word with distaste. He still hadn't forgiven him for the extra three and a half miles he'd already run.

"Oh, Sherlock. You seem to be under the delusion that I was giving you a choice. Get in."

Sherlock glared at him, walked around to the passenger side of the jeep, and opened the door. Time with Mycroft was still _Time with Mycroft_, and he wasn't about to turn down the opportunity. Still, Mycroft didn't have to know that.

"How's life in the barracks?"

"Demeaning."

"Mm. I think you'll find that's rather the idea."

"You made me miss supper, you know," Sherlock huffed.

"I know."

"Smug bastard," he muttered. He didn't expect the stinging slap that immediately followed.

"You're going to be sorry you said that, _Cadet._"

_Am I? _The warmth of the strike was already spreading across his face, and Sherlock was a bit surprised to find he sort of liked it. "I don't think I am."

"Always testing the boundaries, aren't you, Sherlock? Is that what you thought you were doing at Christmas?"

"I was gathering data."

"Really. And just what was your conclusion?"

"That you're as small-minded and pedestrian as the rest of them."

He'd expected Mycroft's reaction to be anger or disgust - certainly not raucous laughter. Mycroft didn't _do _any sort of unrestrained laughter. Sherlock looked at him uneasily, trying to figure out what he'd missed. Once his laughter had petered out, Mycroft remained silent. Sherlock shifted uneasily in his seat. Clearly, Mycroft disagreed with his conclusion. _Why? _

"It bothers you, doesn't it?"

"What?"

"Your own stupidity, little brother; your inability to figure out what's going on here. I must say, your tactical skills are sorely lacking."

"They are not."

"Then tell me, why did I react as I did when you kissed me?"

Sherlock's thoughts raced. He'd believed it to be guilt for so long, he was having trouble coming up with other reasons. Being this close to Mycroft, physically, didn't help. He could smell his aftershave and the faint hint of wool, even over his own sweat. He was, to his immense irritation, starting to get turned on.

"Time's up. Come on, Sherlock. Tell me why."

"Um, because you felt responsible for my aberrant behaviour?" _Fuck. I shouldn't have answered that as a question._

"You're guessing, Sherlock, and you're not even close. You'll make a bloody awful tactician, and an even worse negotiator."

He parked the jeep behind the administration building that housed his office.

"I'll walk from here."

Mycroft grabbed a handful of his sodden t-shirt at the neck and pulled him roughly off-balance. "You'll do no such thing. You still need to apologise for your little remark in the jeep."

"I'm sorry… sir."

Mycroft gave a short laugh. "My office. Now."

An odd mixture of trepidation and excitement mingled in Sherlock's gut. Mycroft shoved him towards the door of the building.

"Last time you were here, you came in through the front door. Let's see if you can figure out how to get there from the back."

_Think. Second floor. View of the parade grounds. There had been a central hallway, and then a small secondary one. For the parade grounds, it must have been a right off the main hallway._

He felt a sharp sting on his arse and turned around. Mycroft smiled at him as he held his swagger stick, ready to use it again. "Ten more for each wrong turn."

He went inside, dismayed to find no hint of a main hallway. This wing of the building must have been added later, and it was a maze of rooms and small, confusing passageways. It took two wrong turns before he found the central hallway. Once he found that, he had no problem finding Mycroft's office, but the thought of twenty strokes left him more aroused than he wanted to admit, even to himself. He was glad for the bagginess of his fatigues and the tightness of his briefs.

Mycroft unlocked the door to his office and pushed Sherlock inside. He took his time locking the door behind them. "All the other officers will be at supper. We're free to have our little _conversation _in private."

Sherlock glanced at the desk and his thoughts flew back to the last time he'd been here, struggling and unable to breathe as Mycroft had shaved his head. He found the mixture of arousal and fear to be a heady combination. He stood motionless, afraid any movement would betray him.

"You enjoyed it more than you want to admit, didn't you? Not at the time, of course, but you can't get it out of your head. How many times have you wanked to it, Sherlock? The memory of me choking you?"

_Oh, God._

"Answer me, you insufferable little prat!" Mycroft gave him another sharp slap with his swagger stick, earning a small yelp of pain.

"Lots of times."

"I want a number. I know you've been counting."

"Eighteen." There was no pause, no hesitation. _Of course I counted, you sod._

"Eighteen." Mycroft rolled the word off his tongue like a tease. "In fourteen days. Well, well. I had no idea you'd enjoy it _that_ much. I'll have to tell the Lieutenant to keep you more busy if you can find that much time to get yourself off."

"It doesn't take long," Sherlock spat.

"Oh, I'll bet it doesn't," Mycroft said with a cruel laugh. "Have you figured out why it gets you off? Or have you even given it any thought?"

_Which is worse? Admitting the reason or feigning ignorance and stupidity? _His ego couldn't handle it. The truth, as embarrassing as it was, was preferable. "Of course I have. It was the helplessness."

"Close."

"What do you mean, 'close'? That's my fucking reason. You don't get to dictate my emotions."

"Oh, I'm not trying to. I'm just saying there's another term for it. A much more apt term."

"And I'm sure you're going to tell me what it is."

"Submission."

_Oh, shit. _His brain flooded with images of the struggle as Mycroft had slowly cut off his air supply. He recalled how his hearing had gone tinny, dark spots had formed in his vision - the general euphoria of it. All symptoms of hypocapnea. But the memory he always jerked off to was not of the physical sensations of oxygen deprivation, but that of his brother holding him down without mercy. Mycroft had bent him to his will; he'd had no choice in the matter, and - this was the part he hadn't realised before - _he'd wanted it that way._ _That _was what did it for him. That was what made him come. _Submission. _

"For someone so intelligent, you can be incredibly dim, Sherlock."

Sherlock shot him a dark scowl.

"Drop and give me thirty."

Sherlock rolled his eyes. "Really, Mycroft? I'd expect this of Duckarse, but not of you."

"Do it. Now." There was nothing playful in his tone.

Sherlock got on the floor and started the push-ups. Two weeks of training and his lithe body made them relatively easy, but thirty was still pushing it. By the time he'd finished, he was once again sweating and his arms were shaking from the exertion.

"Atten-tion," Mycroft barked.

Sherlock immediately stood and assumed the familiar position.

Mycroft walked in front of him and met Sherlock's stare. His eyes remained locked on Sherlock's as his hand moved to the front of Sherlock's fatigue trousers and palmed his groin. "Thirty push-ups. And still, you're ragingly hard. You _are _in a bad way."

Sherlock stayed silent. Nothing he could say was going to make this any better.

"Sherlock Holmes, at a loss for words. Isn't that delicious? Trousers down, bend over my desk. Pants, too."

Even in the half-light of the dim office, colour rushed to Sherlock's cheeks. Mycroft hadn't seen him naked since he was a child. The fact that he'd _wanted _this - well, not _this_, but Mycroft… it just wasn't going to plan at all. To say it was disconcerting would have been a massive understatement.

He walked to the desk and undid his trousers, letting them fall around his ankles. He pushed his pants down as well. It wasn't like they were hiding anything from Mycroft.

Somehow, despite his appalling behaviour at school over the years, he'd never been caned. He suspected there had been some sort of note in his record prohibiting it; the family certainly 'donated' enough money to the school. The few strikes he'd gotten tonight, on his clothed arse, hinted at a tantalising mixture of pain and… pleasure wasn't the right word… perhaps a sort of neurochemical buzz.

He stood there, bent over the desk, with his arse proudly on display. It was one of his best features, and he knew it. Mycroft ran the swagger stick over it, appreciatively.

"Have you figured it out yet, little brother?"

Sherlock was having trouble thinking, let alone deducing. "What?"

"My reaction at Christmas. Do try and keep up."

"Um, no."

"Well, perhaps a little pain will help you focus. Count them off."

The first hit made him suck for air. It hurt. A lot. "One."

Mycroft varied the position of the strokes, landing them in neat patterns across Sherlock's curvaceous arse.

By the time they reached ten, the individual strokes still stung, but the buzz and warmth started to outweigh the pain.

By the time they reached twenty, Sherlock had let out more than one inadvertent, mortifying moan of pleasure.

"Did you even know, Sherlock? That you got off on pain?"

"No," he replied in a whisper.

"And do you have an answer for me, yet?"

_Fuck. _He hadn't been able to think of anything except the stinging pain in his arse and the subsequent tingling arousal. _Think. _A dozen possibilities raced through his head, only to be discarded. He clung to the only one that made sense. "You feel the same way."

"What way is that, Sherlock?"

He wished he could see his brother's face, and not just the hard wooden shine of the desk. "Sexually. You're attracted to me sexually."

"I'd have thought that was obvious. Still two steps behind, little brother. At this point, I don't think you're going to figure it out. I'm a little disappointed. I'd hoped you would."

Sherlock's anger flared. "How could I? You're so bloody remote. You're even better at hiding your feelings than I am."

"Not much of a compliment, but thank you all the same."

He jumped as Mycroft's hand touched his bare arse. It was the first time Mycroft had touched him since the slap in the jeep, and he'd never touched him like this. He sucked in another breath and desperately tried to control the urge to lean into it. He failed.

"So eager for it, aren't you, little brother? Well, since you haven't figured it out, I suppose I'll tell you. I'm sure you think you're the first one to have discovered incestuous thoughts. I assure you that's not the case. When I first realised what I wanted to do to you, you weren't of age. So I waited, and gathered data of my own. When you turned sixteen, you still showed little interest in sex, and I wasn't about to force myself on you. But by the time you turned seventeen, and I came back at Christmas, your attitude had changed. It was clear to me from your rather sweet, if inept, attempts at coy seduction that you'd been with no one else. So I made arrangements. Plans. I had every intention of divesting you of your virginity that evening after Christmas dinner. And then you kissed me, and ruined everything."

"What? Why? If you felt the same way, why didn't you do anything? Why did you storm off and not speak to me?" Sherlock was furious. He started to push himself up from the desk to confront his brother, only to be pushed back down by a rough shove between the shoulder-blades.

"Dear God, Sherlock. I hope those questions just came out of your mouth because of emotion and not actual confusion. You tell me."

"Competition."

"Very good. I couldn't have you thinking it was all your idea, now could I? I was furious. I'd waited that long, and you'd ruined it; beaten me to the punch, as it were."

"And Sandhurst? Did you manipulate me into coming here too?"

"Don't be an idiot, Sherlock; that was your idea - well, perhaps Mummy's - but you do have free will. I just decided I was willing to wait until a better opportunity presented itself. And then, a few weeks ago, you presented yourself here on my doorstep. All mine. For a year. I can't say I wasn't thrilled. And the Army of all places - so eager to be moulded, disciplined. So eager to be submissive to a more dominant will."

Sherlock felt the blood pounding in his veins and his breathing getting distinctly ragged. He heard the rip of foil. _Condom? Oh God, please. Yes. _He felt one of Mycroft's hands spread his cheeks, revealing his virgin arse. Then he heard Mycroft spit and felt a finger rubbing at his entrance. He took a deep breath and tried to relax. He let out a small cry as the finger breached him. It only hurt for a few seconds though, and soon he was pushing back against it, moaning.

He whined as the finger disappeared, only to be replaced by something hard and slick and _much _bigger, just sitting at his entrance - not pushing yet. It was cold and didn't have the give of flesh. _Oh, God. The handle of his stick._ He struggled to remember how it looked. It was huge, compared to Mycroft's fingers._ He's put a condom on it and he's going to fuck me with that._

"Figured it out, have you? Yes, it's quite large, but it should help prepare you for the pounding I'm going to give you afterwards. It won't be quite big enough to open you up for me, but it seems that you like a _little_ pain, wouldn't you agree?"

Sherlock nodded. _It would seem so._

"You have a choice, Sherlock. If you don't want this, tell me now. I can pull strings, get you out of the Army, and I'll never lay a finger on you again. If you stay, you become mine, to use as I wish. I won't necessarily be gentle, but I will take care of you."

Sherlock craned his neck to look at his brother. He had to see him - gauge his true intent, although he had no reason to doubt his words.

Mycroft's face was a question. "I won't force you to do anything you don't want to do, though I will push your boundaries. And despite what I said earlier, nepotism is a time-honoured tradition here. You won't have to suffer as a cadet any longer - promotions will mysteriously be granted. You'll be ordering Duckworth around within a couple of months." He let out a long, slow breath. "It's time to decide what you want, Sherlock. Is this a passing notion, or do you need me as badly as I need you?"

Sherlock's eyes went as wide at the brutal honesty of the statement. He hadn't expected this from Mycroft. He'd _never_ expected this. The muscles in his neck burned as they strained to hold the position. "I need this, Mycroft. I need you."

Mycroft graced him with a rare smile. "Good."

Sherlock let his head fall back against the desk, his mind spinning with the new information and the decision he'd just made.

"Good," he heard Mycroft say again, as the handle of the stick pressed insistently against his tight hole. _God, so much, it's never going to fit. _His muscles clenched against the intrusion and the pressure subsided. He felt Mycroft's hand slide under his t-shirt onto his lower back, massaging slow circles there. He started to relax, and Mycroft once again pushed the firm wooden handle against him, twisting it slowly.

"The end is the widest. You've almost taken it. Relax and bear down."

He did, and with a pop, it slipped inside. Sherlock cried out at the sudden stretch and burn. "God, Mycroft. That hurt."

"Shh." He continued tracing the circles on Sherlock's lower back. "Give it a second. Your body will adjust." He waited until Sherlock's breathing returned to normal before asking, "More?"

Sherlock nodded. The unyielding wood wasn't comfortable, but it wasn't painful either. His breath caught as it rubbed over his prostate for the first time. "Fuck…"

Mycroft chastised him with a smile in his voice, "Language, Sherlock." He pulled it back out a little, rubbing over it again. "Feels good though, doesn't it?"

Sherlock nodded, too overcome with sensation to talk.

Mycroft inched it slowly inside him until Sherlock's body ceased to see it as an invasion and started actively craving the intrusion.

He thrust his arse out to meet the thick shaft as Mycroft pushed it into him again.

"That didn't take long. Always so precocious." Mycroft's voice sounded strained.

"It's killing you, isn't it? Waiting; when you really want your cock inside me?" It was calculated and provoking and had exactly the desired effect. Sherlock looked back at his brother with a smile of pure challenge.

Mycroft's remaining self-control shattered, and he pulled the handle from Sherlock's arse will far more speed than was comfortable.

The hard wood tugged at his passage as it was swiftly removed, and Sherlock gasped. _Still, I was right, _he thought as he let his head drop back onto the desk once again. He heard the stick clatter to the floor, the rustle of clothing, and the soft squelching sound of what he assumed was lubricant.

He felt Mycroft's body behind him. A strong arm reached down and pulled Sherlock back so he was upright, and Mycroft half-kissed, half-bit at Sherlock's neck. His brother pulled his hips back long enough to line his cock up at Sherlock's entrance - the sensation was hot and throbbing this time, not at all like the wooden handle.

"You're mine, little brother," Mycroft hissed in his ear, as he drove into him with one hard thrust.

Sherlock started to cry out and a firm hand clamped down over his mouth. He forgot how to breathe for a few seconds until he remembered he could breathe through his nose, and he struggled to get enough air as Mycroft slammed into him. The raw, heady force of it; the slick glide of Mycroft's cock deep in his arse; the torturous thrusts across his prostate: it was a million times better than he'd imagined.

Mycroft removed his hand from Sherlock's mouth and he sucked in a great lungful of air. "Is this what you wanted, little brother?"

"Yes, God yes," he managed to choke out.

"You don't even need my hand on you to come, do you?" It was barely a question.

Sherlock shook his head; he was close to coming as it was. He felt Mycroft's long, slender fingers close around his neck, restricting his breath and slowing the flow of blood through his carotid artery.

"How about my hand on your neck instead? Come for me, Sherlock. Come for me." Mycroft's voice was ragged, his usual calm demeanour in tatters.

Sherlock strained against Mycroft's hand, deliberately cutting off his breath further as he felt his orgasm rip through him. He cried out, not quietly, and Mycroft was forced to cover his mouth again. The sudden rush of blood made him giddy as he shuddered through the powerful orgasm, his release spattering against his brother's desk.

Mycroft was close but not quite there, and he braced himself against the desk as he pounded into him, chasing his own release. It didn't take long, and his thighs went rigid as he came deep inside his brother's arse.

"Oh, God… Sherlock." His voice was surprisingly tender.

"My…" Sherlock was at a loss for words. It was exactly what he'd wanted, and more than he'd expected.

Mycroft pulled out and turned Sherlock to face him. He kissed him gently - the touch of it more gentle than anything they'd ever shared in their lives.

Sherlock noticed with surprise that Mycroft was still mostly dressed - only his trousers were around his knees. His jacket, shirt and even his hat were still in place. He swallowed, the tingling in his cock confirming what he already knew: he had a definite uniform kink.

Mycroft caught him looking. "Pervert," he said with a smile.

"But I'm _your_ pervert."

"Indeed. Now let's get cleaned up. We need to see about relocating you to better quarters. My quarters."


End file.
